


Kill of the Night

by forwhenmybrainhurts



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, Multi, New Year's Eve, Singing, Urban Magic Yogs, non-explicit reference to violence and death, umy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forwhenmybrainhurts/pseuds/forwhenmybrainhurts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No actual violence or sex, but a bit of affection. Not sure whether I should do a part two; let me know.</p><p>The Garbage Court go out somewhere different, and Smith spots a conquest. </p><p>Inspired by Gin Wilmore's song, Kill of the Night, and by the amazing works for the Urban Magic Yogs AU, some canon from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/173777">threeplusfire's</a> works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill of the Night

"Do you fancy doing something different tonight?" Trott asked Ross, who was slurping up noodles and vegetables, which had been stir fried to perfection by his king.  
A mouthful of food meant Ross could only furrow one eyebrow, and lift the other in a quizzical look.  
Trott had been watching Ross for the last week or so. It had been heavy going, after all. The glass-adorned gargoyle hadn't seem phased by any stretch - he was one of them - but the mousey-haired selkie had been thinking about all of them stretching their legs, and tasting something new in the air. It would do them some good. New Year's Eve was fast approaching, and it could mean more trouble ahead; people would always let their guards down during big celebrations, and the full moon would be only four days away.  
Trott decided to downplay his thoughts - it sort of defeated the object. Leaning one elbow behind him, on the back of the chair, and slouching, he murmured indifferently before commenting, "There's still so much you haven't seen of the city, still so many things to try. Have you heard jazz before?"  
Ross swallowed the food, and tried to recall, "How does it go?" he asked, having never heard of the word before. It wouldn't mean no one had played it around him though.  
Trott's eyes smiled in that most endearing way they did when he was about to share some new culture with Ross. He figured it was the closest thing to feeling like a child at school - or in the living room - learning new colours, objects and language. It warmed him through when he could sit back and learn, and nothing more. Whatever it was, it would always excite him.  
Trott didn't say anything, but rose from his lounging position at the kitchen table, and walked to the radio to turn it on. He tuned into his favourite jazz station, and let it play. He didn't turn to Ross straight away, rather looked out of the kitchen window, which had been opened to let out the heat and smell of cooking. The lights would always seem so much softer when this station was on. It was a rare occasion, which Trott pretty much saved for when he was alone in the house, but he was itching to see his friends fall apart at something other than pounding beats, or vocalists making orgasm sounds. All of that was always great fun, of course, but sometimes a little subtlety was needed to start a different sort of fire in one's blood.  
Ross followed the selkie's gaze out of the window. The hum of the city was still audible, but it was like everything had been put through a filter. The sporadic notation seemed to coat the streets in black and white, conservative hairstyles and diamond earrings. It reminded him of a few films he had seen. The characters on the pavements spoke in a drawl, about the dangers of pretty girls walking into offices on their own, and cocktail parties.  
"Film noir," he said, remembering what Smith had told him about genres. Ross had enjoyed those movies, even if they had seemed similar to each other. He'd loved the dark theme of Sunset Boulevard, spurred on to the end, by the promise of the beginning. It was a fascinating insight into the very human fear of getting old, or being forgotten. Some of it touched on his feelings towards his past, but it only made the film more interesting.  
Trott finally turned his head back to Ross, his tartan scarf masking his smile. "Yeah," he commended.  
The two watched each other's eyes for a moment. These moments between them were precious, as intimate moments between any of them were. Art Blakey's rhythms crescendoed, and Ross felt the air around him warm. He had to close his eyes, as he could have sworn there was a smell of sultry romance in the air. He didn't know what that was supposed to smell like, but if he had to describe it, he would have said cigarettes, rum, ginseng bubble bath and cinnamon toast. Why did he suddenly want a smoke?  
Trott's smile widened, and he turned his body to lean back against the countertop. When Ross' eyes opened he saw them reflect every light source they could, and his breath hitched. Ross really was stunning. The gargoyle saw his reaction, and flashed a wicked smile, making Trott's tongue trace his lips involuntarily.  
Ross got up and arrived in front of Trott before he had time to think about it, and wound his arms around the slim selkie's torso, and his tail around a leg. Their lips met with such tenderness, that it took both of them by surprise. Breaking apart prematurely because of it, they each judged the other's thoughts, but both went with the moment anyway, and kissed again.  
"Jeez guys, it's way too early for that." The low-toned growl of their king finally ended the moment, and the two embracing friends laughed, maybe a little embarrassed, which didn't usually happen.  
"What is this? I like it." Sips nodded his head in time to Gerry Mulligan, who had replaced Art Blakey.  
"Jazz," Ross confirmed, proudly.  
"I know that," Sips said, bluntly, "but why are we listening to it?"  
"I was thinking we could have a change of scenery tonight," Trott suggested, "like a jazz bar, or something." He expected Sips to completely dismiss the idea. After all, he had stated only the day before that it was important to show their faces as often as they could, but the king raised his eyebrows and nodded in an approving way.  
He made one of his pleased noises, and said, "Good idea, Trott."

 

Sips had finally had enough of Smith's complaining, and swiped at the back of his head, which made a rather satisfying noise as it connected with his hand.  
"Ow!" The kelpie protested loudly.  
"Smiffy, it would do you nothing but good to get a bit of fucking culture. I'm taking you to the museum next week,"  
Smith's eyes narrowed, as he thought of a comeback. "Which one?" he asked in a low tone, dripping with sarcasm.  
"It will be a surprise, Smiffy. I know just the place for you." Sips' ambiguous expression stopped Smith retorting further, instead his curiosity was sparked, but he didn't show it.  
In fact, Smith loved jazz, as he did all music. It was only that he'd had his eye on some pretty thing who had just started frequenting the club, painted face full of innocence and shyness. He had made extra curricular plans.  
The Garbage Court was walking through one of the city's bustling thoroughfares, still lit up with the warmth of Christmas lights, which hung low enough for Ross to almost touch them. They were simple garlands of big, white bulbs in a zigzag pattern above everyone's heads. Ross wondered about the cost, and energy consumption, as all of the cobbled streets were lit this way. There would never be a day without the local news discussing cutbacks of some sort. Surely - as beautiful and traditional as the decorations were - this was counterproductive? Other cities and towns seemed to use cheap LED lights.  
It was as if Trott had read his mind. "There is a whole lot of magic keeping them lit," he explained.  
Ross was a little surprised at first. It wasn't often magic was discussed as doing something simply good. But it made sense that even magic could be taken in by the holiday spirit.  
Ross remembered the lights from his view on the church. The city would illuminate for half a mile around the centre square, all of a sudden, one night in December. He tried to predict when it would be, but it seemed to change every year.  
His cue would be when he could see the street below him suddenly become busy. The people would mostly be headed in the same direction, and they would walk slower than usual, wrapped in patterned scarves, hand in hand with each other.  
Ross would watch the lights switch on, and lift his nose into the air to sense the change. He would always spend the night huddled inside, on those nights. It would make him feel closer to something.

There were several jazz clubs in the city, and whilst one of them did welcome magic, it was amateurish, and some nights would end in curses being thrown around as if they were simple insults.  
The only time Trott had tried it out had ended with the half-banshee barmaid scoring aflame fingernails over someone's face, after they had cursed her, so one side of her face had blown up like a balloon.  
"Here we are," Trott stopped them beside a typical old terraced townhouse, which was along a row of others like it, each of them converted into restaurants, bars and curio shops. The main building was a posh accountants, now shut for the evening, and the jazz bar was underneath, a literal underbelly of the upper class office.  
If one didn't know where to look, they may not have seen it. There were no signs on the railings to indicate anything of interest was lying down the old, paved steps, but the promising bass and beat twinned with the atmospheric orange and red glow coming from the small window, which was slightly ajar, was enough to entice people down.  
Ross hadn’t realised the smell would be so accurate to what he had imagined. Cigarettes, alcohol and jasmine. He knew it was jasmine, as Sips often burned incense late on a Saturday if he hadn’t gone out.  
Maybe there had been a scene in a film, or something, but the room looked exactly like he had expected it to. The bar was small, to make more room for tables and chairs, and the generous stage, which held many musicians with fantastic instruments. There were guitars all over the place, a man stood tall, holding a double bass, and the drum kit was huge. A baby grand piano sat at the middle left of the stage, and the pianist was playing a smooth, sombre piece, backed up by the other instrumentalists. It was clear that the night was young.  
A few people were drinking and chatting, dressed finely, possibly starting their evenings here, or coming in after eating a meal, but the thing which most caught Ross’ attention was the lighting. Small tealights decorated each table, and Christmas fairy garlands adorned the bar and doorways, but the stage was burning orange and red from the set of stage lights. The gargoyle could see smoke and dust swirling in the beams, and was even aware of the heat coming from them. He wondered how uncomfortable it might get for the people up there.  
A couple of drinks later, and the air seemed to shift. It was even warmer; the patrons coming through from the snowy street all sighed with relief once they were over the threshold.  
A woman joined the band on stage, and everyone applauded. She was wearing a green wiggle dress, heavy makeup, and old-fashioned hair. It caused Ross a double take. He was aware that fashions came and went, but this woman had seemingly chosen to hold onto this style.  
It reminded him of the women who trudged to work, when the war was on. They would walk in groups, chatting and laughing, keeping each other’s spirits alive, until the day they were able to clutch hold of their fathers, sons, brothers and partners once again, whether that be to welcome them home alive, or dead.  
The short of it was, however, that the woman looked amazing, and stole everyone’s attention as she launched into a rendition of Peter Gunn. Once she had finished singing, her low speaking voice swam over the audience.  
“Who’s up for singing tonight?” she asked, eyes fluttering over everyone. A few people called back, causing the woman’s red lips to smile genuinely.  
“You want to come up first, Walden?”  
The man called Walden didn’t need need to reply, he simply got out of his seat, and confidently strolled up onto the stage. The female singer laughed affectionately, and hugged Walden. He clearly did this a lot. The woman quickly handed the front of the stage over, and Walden took hold of the round-bottomed mic stand, led straight into a song, and Smith’s eyes started to gleam.  
“Would you have a look at this one?” he breathed, to no one in particular.  
Trott looked at him, however, a knowing smirk on his face. “Take your fancy?” he asked.  
Smith growled in response, which caused a stir in the selkie’s stomach. Nothing was better than watching Smith full of desire. He made a mental note not to leave it too long until the restraints came out again.  
Smith couldn’t take his eyes off the man called Walden. He was a good singer, but had much to learn about charm. The poor man was trying his absolute best, gripping his hand into a fist at all the right moments, almost straddling the stand, but it was all so cliched. One small glance at the other crowd members told Smith that Walden was popular; the cliches were working, and it only made Smith’s teeth grind more.  
Walden wasn’t tall, but not short either, had light hair, and was wearing dark jeans and a denim jacket. The jacket looked too tight around his arms, and Smith pictured slicing it off him, stitch by stitch. All thought of the sweet stranger in the club had been pushed aside, as the want and determination burned across kelpie’s forehead.  
A big cheer went up when the song ended, and Smith let his magic work just a little bit, so Walden noticed him as he stepped down from the stage, and stopped in his tracks, mouth falling open. The magic was suppressed quickly, so Walden merely shook his head in disbelief, and went back to his table. The moment had been enough, however, to cause the man to constantly glance in Smith’s direction.  
“You’re a bad man, Smiffy,” Sips turned to Smith, holding a fresh glass of whiskey out to him.  
A flash of a smile, and Smith stated, “But that’s why you keep me,” and accepted the drink, staring for a long while at his king’s features.  
“Stop it,” Sips warned, making the auburn haired kelpie laugh and turn back to the stage to watch the next singer.

The charm had almost worn off Walden, and Smith smiled to himself as he found the song he wanted to sing in the large folder at the bar. Saying nothing to the others, he took to the stage.  
Trott looked to the man at the table, and saw the glazed look returning. He shook his head a little, knowing it wouldn’t be the nice, relaxing evening that he’d hoped for, but at the same time, was enticed at the lights of the stage illuminating Smith, almost burning enough to show his aura.  
Smith looked down at the stage, right up until the song started, and his part began. Grasping onto the stand, and honing his efforts onto the man he had clocked earlier, he opened his eyes.  
Walden didn’t blink for the four minutes in which he was seduced.  
“My cold desire,  
to hear the boom boom boom of your heart.”  
At first Ross could only smile, enjoying the way Smith seemed to belong up there. He hadn’t had the pleasure of watching his friend sing on stage yet.  
“The danger is,  
I’m dangerous,  
and I might just tear you apart.  
I’m gonna catch ya,  
I’m gonna getcha.  
I wanna taste the way that you bleed.  
You’re my kill of the night.”  
As the lyrics resounded in the gargoyle’s head, he realised what was happening. Surveying where Smith was singing towards, he spotted Walden, transfixed. It was both terrifying and rousing at the same time. Ross found himself gripping onto the bar, a little harder than he would usually let himself, and the veneer almost started splitting beneath his palm. Letting go, he tried to calm his breathing. It was hard to do, when all he could see in his mind was Smith fucking this stranger, maybe right where his hand had just been.  
The song went on, Walden didn’t move, Trott smiled more and more, but didn’t let the kelpie’s charm cloud him too much, and Ross couldn’t stop silent sighs escape his mouth every few seconds. He reached out to gently paw at Sips, who turned, amusement coming over him when he realised what the gargoyle was looking so gormless about.  
“Shall we leave Smiffy to it, guys?” the king asked, raising his eyebrows cheekily.  
Ross snapped out of his small trance, and affectionately smiled at Sips. “Can we have sex, please?” he asked, making the other two laugh.  
“Let’s go,” Sips said, heading for the door.


End file.
